


Connection

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Explicit, Rescue, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7069177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan Kenobi has been declared dead, one of those lost in the horror of Jabiim. His apprentice feels otherwise, but stands alone in his conviction. Until Siri Tachi knows she can feel Obi-Wan through the force: in agony and alive, but just barely. She knows what she must do, but will it be enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love is Not All that is Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Secret OTP, since I was like 7 years old. Poor Obi-Wan; poor Anakin; poor Siri. That's all there is too say, really. Let me know what you think :)

She reaches out and touches his face, only the tips of the backs of his fingers brushing the back of his face. He kisses them gently, as her other hand runs down his skin. His clothes seem to peel off like water, hers melting away under his fingertips until he can feel her pressed against him. There is no urgency there, only love, and her body, so warm, inviting, whole caresses his with every inch of their exposed skin.

She kisses him, then his neck, he can feel her hand rubbing slow circles on his back, easing the tension and pain out of the wounds he can no longer feel under her touch. "Siri?" He hears himself whisper softly, and her gentle laugh in turn.

"I love you." She answers in reply, and presses him back onto the bed he hasn't noticed before. She comes down on top of him, pressing him into the bed. He can feel her hands on his chest, her lips on his cheek, forehead, neck. "Let me make love to you."

"Siri…" But he doesn't know what to say to her. This is amazing, it's everything he's wanted with her, for so long. She isn't like other women he's known. He loves her, with every fiber of his being, and his body is yearning for her. Her hands are erasing his memories of pain, his sharp stabs of agony, and is turning it into a kind of fire, lighting each of his nerves with her touch. She pulls closer, draws him in closer, he can feel her hands on his chest, his abdomen, his waist.

He let out a sharp breath, he can feel the anticipation behind his own movements. The love he's felt for years, finally its physically manifesting itself. Her lips are close to hers, so close. He can feel her breath, hear her heartbeat. He wants her, she wants him the same. He sees her smile in her eyes before it reaches her lips, before he lips reach his in the moment before they come together.

Then, he feels something sharp against his back. And she's evaporating from where she was against him. The love he could feel, the tangible, warm, comforting feeling is gone. His skin, where he could feel her touch only moments before, now feels like it's splitting apart. A strange fire lighting paths across it.

He gasps in pain, his arm feeling as though the bone is buckling in on itself. Simultaneously, all of his muscles are clenching and he can smell the electricity that's ripping through him for only a moment. Her face doesn't disappear. Her body is only inches form his. He reaches for her, and he can see his own skin covered in blood. Tears obscure his vision, and he can feel the severance of his connection to the force. But still, she lingers.

She is reaching for him, unable to touch him, her fingers are hovering inches from his face. She is crying, much harder than he is, and he hopes she cannot feel this pain. Something cuts across his back. A whip, leather and biting, it cuts in his skin and for the first time, he can feel blood. He is pulled form his the recesses of his mind, she disappears, her image gone.

He is back where he once was, where he never really left. Only now, his face is free from the mask. She is speaking to him. Not Siri. Not her.

"How, Kenobi?" She is angry, and he can feel it in the bite of the whip that follow, cracking across his shoulder blade. He groans, his blood running down his back, mixing with the other cuts across his skin. She didn't stop. "The mask cripples Jedi, the power of the Sith is too strong for your weak order to resist. And yet, here you are." She is more than angry, she is seething, each word punctuated by a moment of silence and snap of the whip across his back. He tries to keep in his reactions, but he's disoriented enough as it is and can't hold in the pain gasps that push past his lips.

"Tell me, false Jedi." And he realizes he's on his knees in a room, he can barely see through his eyes, tears and dried blood blurring his vision to the extent that he can only see her almost pure white form in the darkness around him. But she has no shape, no face. "How you defeated it."

But he has no answer. He remembers the mask now, the weeks of pain, or sitting, kept by the force form mere centimeters of cloth. The whip comes again and again, his blood flowing freely, but his lungs are too weak to scream. He tries to concentrate on what let him defeat the mask. On what has happened, but his force connection is now cut by the suppressants he can feel in his blood, by the handcuffs keeping his hands pulled down and his back straight and an easy target. But his mind, through exhaustion, through pain, through the distance from the force, keeps him from it.

She says something else, but he can't hear it over the roar in his ears and the screams he realizes might be coming from him as the whip splits down his spine and cuts into an already damaged muscle. He can hear her laugh, at the edge of consciousness. And he wonders how, in this place where he feel so alone, he managed to beat the mask. He does not feel like a Jedi here, not when his body is on fire and his mind is out of touch. He can feel his control slipping, he wants to scream until there's no air left in his lungs and there's nothing left for him to do but feel nothing.

But it won't keep. Her voice, cold and hard, her laugh, cruel and directed at him, the whip, burning horrible paths over his body. He closes his eyes, the darkness starting to swirl in front of him. He can feel his consciousness finally slipping away, but before it does, he can feel her. Not Ventress. But her, a gentle hand on his face, a thumb brushing away a soft tear, and he grasps as it, desperate for her protection.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Siri Tachi sits straight up in her bed, a horrible, cold sweat all over her skin. She has never felt this way, her heart is racing, her desperation palatable. She stands, pulling on her boots without lacing them and pounds into the hallway. She knows the truth now, she cannot believe that she had denied it for so long, let him suffer that way for so long. 

She almost runs through the hallways, dim, sleeping lights dim in the hallway as she moves. She feels wild, almost feral. She can feel the tears on her face at what she knows is a shared memory between her and Obi-Wan. It had started so pleasant, so often she had thoughts of him like that, where they could make love, where they had given in to their feelings so long ago. But now he had been torn away from her, tortured, beaten; left for dead by her and the rest of the Order who had never gone for him. Who had called him dead. And he had reached out to her, for help. And she had not been able to give it, only to touch his face, to cry as that woman, that monster, took him. 

She comes to the meditation room, and in it, in addition to Master Yoda and Master Windu, was Anakin. “No, Master Windu, he’s alive! I could feel him, only a few minutes ago!” The boy was distraught, practically yelling. She had consoled him a few days before, tried to encourage him to let go of his grief. Now she too was consumed with guilt, he had been right. 

“Skywalker, the Order has accepted Master Kenobi’s death, it has been recommended that you attend meditation with your new master…”

But she interrupted before a red-faced Anakin had the chance. “Excuse me Masters, but Anakin is correct.” They stopped to stare at her, regarding her with serious eyes. Yoda turned to her, and she knew form his gaze that he could see that she was telling the truth. That she had accepted Obi-Wan’s death, but now had seen his life. He could see their connection. Anakin stared at her, open-mouthed, a grateful look on his face. 

“Obi-Wan is alive.” And there, buried in her words and thoughts was the beginning of something else. A spark, just a tiny spark. 

Of hope.


	2. All that Matters

They had been right. She and Anakin. Mace Windu, when the communication from Obi-Wan had come over the communication waves had given the pair of them a hard stare; he did not understand how they could have known. The piece it had taken out of both of them to hold on to such a seemingly ludicrous belief.

The transmission was clear in her mind, as she moved down the hallway to where she knew she would find him in the med ward. She had heard his voice, in actuality far more cracked, desperate for water, tight with pain, than the voice in her own mind. He had called for a convoy, he had been coughing, and seconds in, his voice had faded to be that of his Clone Commander. Alpha was his name, Obi-Wan had collapsed he had said. They needed a medical convoy, they needed help and immediately. And, even as Mace Windu had regarded her with an aloof, almost cold stare, she had seen the glimmer of agonized humanity within him as he called for a ship.

Anakin had wanted to go. "He is my master. I will go for him."

"Wait here, you must. Dangerous, this rescue will be." Yoda had instead charged others, Master Plo Koon, Master Secura, and their small fleet of clones to go and retrieve him. They had seen naught of Ventress, she had not come looking for her prize. She had known when they arrived at him, felt the ripples in the force. Their fear. Their horror. Small glimmers compared to the new waves of pain that rolled off of Obi-Wan as they removed his suppressors.

She remembered that next transmission with horrible clarity. It was pushing to the forefront of her mind, overriding the others, forcing her focus. "We have moved Master Kenobi to the medical convoy." Plo Koon's deep voice had resonated with grief in her memory. "His condition is fragile." His holographic form had paused and regarded Anakin, who stared hungrily at the screen, before continuing. "Master Secura and I are in agreement, we do not see how Master Kenobi has managed to survive these injuries."

That thought was so very strange to her. He should be dead. Obi-Wan Kenobi should not be alive. The smiling, sarcastic, extraordinary Jedi should not be living. There was no reason, not that the other masters could understand, not that the healers could feel; that he could still be alive. Even she, who thought she knew the answer; she was disturbed.

After that, there had been only waiting. Silence. And more silence. And Anakin staring at the floor in front of her, and too bright lights in the hallway, too dim lights in the hangar when they brought him in. She saw him then, but her mind had refused to believe it. She wanted to cry and scream and vomit and faint at the same time. That couldn't have been him. That mangled, blood soaked, emaciated body could not have belonged to Obi-Wan; not the Obi-Wan she had always known.

The medics had taken him instantly, the stretcher they carried him on stained through with blood at his touch, and the last she had seen of him had been his hand, too pale for a living body, dangling over the side of the stretcher as they ran through the halls in desperation. His Commander, the clone Alpha, had come out next, supported on each side by Aayla and Plo Koon. He was weak, his normally strong muscles weak, his body bruised and cut. But he had struggled with them, demanding to be taken with Obi-Wan. It had, in the end, taken a sedative injection to calm him. To make him relax enough so that his injuries could be treated.

All of this she remembered; with imperceptibly perfect clarity that the force offered her. Only these things she did not want to remember. They were filling her mind now, as she stepped through the halls of the medical ward to his room. When she came to his bed, the images she had of him damaged and breaking seemed almost irreconcilable with the man now.

They had cut the knotted mess that had become his hair, it was now short, and although Anakin said they had shaved his face clean, his beard had returned, albeit much thinner than usual. He was wearing a white medical tunic and pants, loosely draped around his skin, which was starting to regain some of its color. He had regained his force signature, though through it she could feel it was laced with pain.

She had to stop, the simple force of it took her breath away. She was not privy to what they had done to him in the prison, she had not been there for Alpha's debriefing which was reserved for the council. But all of them, even Master Windu, had been shaken. Anakin had told her what he knew, which again was very little, and had spent most of his time in the room she was in now, by Obi-Wan's bedside.

It had been four days and still, he hadn't stirred. She leaned on the table, her mind flooded through their shared connection. She could feel the cuts in his muscles that still lingered, the splintered bones that were healing slowly as his midichlorians regained some of their lost vitality. She could feel where they had drained blood and cut away infection in a desperate attempt to keep him alive. All of this she could feel, right on the tips of her fingers, in her face and hands, and yet she couldn't help him.

Instead, the most she could do was pull up a chair; and sit next to him. For years, their feelings for each other had simply seemed to exist, divided in a web between them. Through all of their explorations as Jedi Knights, all of their joint missions before Ferus had left; there had been an unspoken agreement between them not to address them; and so they hadn't. Only weeks ago, she had accepted his death through the force, meditating for long hours alone and with Adi. But now, here he was; the most recent memory she had of him either filled with the horrific pain she could feel now, or it was a lie.

She wondered what exactly to do, watching his face for any sign of his being awake. Instead, only his chest rose and fell slightly; the fan above his bed blowing his now trimmed hair over his forehead. In a moment where she wasn't thinking clearly, couldn't think clearly beyond the pounding of the force, urging her to do something, she entwined their fingers.

She had never had Obi-Wan's patience, where he was irritatingly thoughtful, she was full of action. As a result, where Obi-Wan has excelled in certain aspects of meditative learning, including the subtle art of healing another through the force; she hadn't taken the time to learn them properly. She regretted it now. One thing she hated more than feeling weak; it was feeling helpless. And she could feel that now, unable to alleviate this, unable to fully understand what was even the cause.

Instead, she did what she could, tried to connect them, to share his pain, to take some of it away. She could feel the cold skin of his fingers, his blood concentrated on his injuries, and she closed her eyes to concentrate. She willed the force to surround them, desperate to help him, desperate for some kind of traction where she could find none. She focused instead on that false memory, where they had almost made love before he had bene pulled away into darkness, concentrated hard on what bound them together through the force, and finally, she could feel it start to lessen. She breathed out a sigh of relief, feeling the strong bind of the force flowing form her to his fingers, transferring her strength, transferring his pain.

But her concentration broke seconds later, when, in the silence that had only been broken by her quiet sigh, she heard a strangled noise. As if air was trying to be forced through a wall. Her eyes opened, searching for the source.

"Siri?" And so they found it, meeting his as they opened for the first time since his torture. His voice was soft; hoarse, rigid, and quiet. And even though the pain he felt had to fresh, awash after she had lost her ability to take some of it, he offered her a small smile.

"Obi-Wan…." But his eyes closed again, this time tight in pain. His hand gripped hers tightly, perhaps unconsciously seeking comfort. And she remembered her own gentle touch on his face, befor their bond had been severed when she had sensed him. She reached up her free hand, and softly pressed it against his cheek. Just as he had in their memory, he pressed into it, then faded back into unconsciousness, leaving her alone, fraught with guilt. With anger. With compassion. With love.


	3. Tangible

She traced his scars, burning paths over them with her lips. He moaned softly at her touch, letting loose the pain and torture he had been put through under that woman. "Siri?" He said, and she felt his fingers trail gently along her cheek. She looked up at him, careful to keep her weight on either side of him, not wanting to interfere with his still healing body.

"Hmm?" She said, leaning down to kiss his cheek, then his temple before pressing her forehead to his gently. The hand that had been on her face moved to trail through her hair. "Is something wrong?" She pulled back to look down at him, running her knuckles gently along his chest.

"Of course not." He said, shaking his head, looking almost worried that he had offended her. "I just…I'm trying to understand something." He admitted, his hands moving to his hips, where his thumbs drew slow circles under the hem of her tunic.

"Live here; now; in the moment. With me, Obi-Wan. Not in that place." She said softly, making patterns on his skin, pressing her hips slightly down into his waist, listening to his sharp exhale at the gesture.

"I am, Siri." He lifts a hand to trace his fingertips lightly over the side of her face. "This is a decision we have made together." She leans down to kiss him again, and through their connection, always intact but so recently renewed, she understands his distraction. He is thinking of that single memory, that shared memory of what their doing now. Only that memory is a lie, and he knows it.

It doesn't keep him from kissing her however, and pulling her closer to his bare chest. In a swift motion, he flips them on the bed, now hovering over her, her legs still wrapped around his waist. He breaks it, moving his head to her neck instead, drawing up soft spots with his lips.

"I know you know what I'm referring to." He trails another set of soft kisses. "I want you to know something." He said, and pulled back to look into her eyes.

She lifted her hand and brushed away what might have been the start of a tear from the corner of his eyes. So similar to what had been in that memory, in that thought, he leans into her hand, into her touch. He takes her wrist in his hand and simply holds it there for a moment.

"Siri, I-" But she presses a finger to his lips.

"I understand, Obi-Wan." She doesn't think she take hearing what he's going to say. He thinks that she saved him. He is going to give her credit for saving him from that place, from that woman, but all that will do is twist tighter at the knot of guilt in her stomach. At his confused gaze, she adds, "I know."

He says nothing for a moment, but releases her hand. All she wants is to kiss him again, curl all of this into what they are so close too, but first, more words are needed. "Obi-Wan." He looks down at her, smiling softly. "That memory isn't real." She says slowly, sucking in a breath at his stricken expression that flits away from his face as he tries to ignore it. She reaches up and takes his face in her hands, pulling him down to where her lips almost brush against his as she whispers. "Let's make a real one." And pulls him into another kiss.

The rest of the night is spent with him, her hands running over everyone of the scars he's accumulated. Whip lashes, burns, knife cuts. She traces them with her hands, her lips; trying to erase every memory he has of that place, every memory she has of him in pain and alone. All she can feel is all of him, their force signatures intertwined as closely as they were.

It's later that night when he says "I love you." And she returns it, wrapping his arm around her waist as they drift off to sleep. That night, for the first time since he's been back and she's seen him in the medical ward, broken and bleeding but still whole; she doesn't dream of that woman. Of that place. Of his blood running over walls, his skin darkening into bruises under her touch, the hollow feeling of losing him again. Instead, she dreams of him; of making love, and this time, the connection is true. The memory is tangible. His touch, his body, his heart, are real.


End file.
